


For Constant Heart

by mareyshelley



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fix-It, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, sansan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-03-29 13:10:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19020583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mareyshelley/pseuds/mareyshelley
Summary: Somehow, the gods only knew why, Sandor survived the fight with his brother. He stayed in King’s Landing long enough to hear about the new Queen in the North, and of a vision from the new King, before riding back to Winterfell.





	1. Sansa I

She didn’t like looking in the mirror anymore. Sansa stood with her back to it while her maid helped her to dress. She fussed with laces and sleeves, skirts and underskirts. At one time, not long ago, Sansa would have taken pride in her appearance. It was important for her, as queen, to look like a queen. She knew that and she had little doubt that her maid, Lyra, was dressing her well, she just couldn’t muster up the same ability to care as a month or so ago.

Sansa thought about septa Mordane and how she’d taught her to hold herself. She stood a little taller as Lyra slipped the bodice of her new dress around her. It fit better than the first dress Lyra had tried to put on her.

“I can let out the seams, your grace,” Lyra said, gathering the other dress into her arms and moving it away.

Sansa said nothing, she only nodded and took off her crown. All of her dresses had needed altering in the last month. She had only a few that fit her now, while she waited for the others to be finished. Lyra draped a cloak over Sansa’s shoulders and fastened it in place with a silver direwolf brooch.

“No one will notice,” she assured Sansa, but they both knew that wasn’t true. Her people may not have noticed yet, but they would soon.

Lyra left with a smile and a curtsy, and Sansa looked down at the snarling direwolves in her crown. It glinted in the morning light as she turned it in her hands, and she was about to put it back on when a commotion in the yard made her pause. The gates creaked as they were opened, and one guard shouted to another. A horse clopped across the cobbles, easily heard in a confused silence.

Sansa looked up, setting her crown to the side. The highest rooms in the castle had few windows, and they were all rather small to keep in the warmth of the fires, but Sansa was tall enough to peer through her chamber window into the yard.

She half-hoped it was Arya returning to Winterfell, but what she saw instead was a group gathered around a man and a horse. A big man, wrapped in a roughspun cloak and… Sansa ran to the door. She rarely ran. As queen, she had to keep her composure -- calm and firm -- but seeing that face back in the castle, calm composure could wait.

Hurrying down the steps, sometimes two at a time, she only just managed to slow herself down as she made it to the yard. She took a deep breath, readying herself, but as she came around the corner and saw _him_ , he collapsed off his horse and the people around him jumped back. A murmur went around the crowd of people trying to work out what they should do. A guard said they shouldn’t have let him in, and the kennelmaster said that he recognised _that_ face.

So did Sansa.

“Get him up,” she said quietly. Only one or two faces turned to her, and she cleared her throat and tried again. “Get him up,” she commanded.

Two guards jumped into action, bowing their heads with an apologetic “your grace.” They linked their arms under his and pulled him, struggling and stumbling, off the ground.

“Follow me,” she added, aware that fewer people were staring at the stranger now. They were looking at her instead.

Lifting her chin, Sansa led the guards into the castle. Only then did the people disperse and remember that they had work to do.

* * *

For the rest of the day, serving girls came in and out of his room. Most of them had offered to light a fire, but Sansa had politely declined each offer. _No fires_ , she was firm on that. He would have to be warm enough in the east tower, the same tower as her own chamber. She’d had a few odd glances at that, but Sansa had looked them all in the eye and instructed that their guest was to be kept comfortable.

She wouldn’t allow them to build a fire in that room, despite how cold he was. Instead, Sansa had asked someone to bring him a fur blanket, then sent them all away. Once they were finally alone, she sat on the bed and took a moment to really look at him. She gently brushed his hair from his face, frowning at the new scars dashed across his skin. They were light, silver threads across his forehead and unburnt cheek, likely easily missed if he was awake and moving around, but Sansa was sure she hadn’t seen them before.

Pushing away her rising questions, Sansa dropped her hand. The blanket alone wouldn’t be enough to warm him. His skin was deathly cold, almost grey, and without a fire she had no idea how she could possibly warm him up. She would have to wait until he woke up before she could send for something warm for him to eat.

It took most of the day for him to stir and when he did his grunt of pain made her jump. He swore, gruff and mumbled, and a small smile tugged at her lips.

Rising from her seat by the empty hearth, Sansa approached the bed. He flinched and blinked, bleary eyed, and it took him a moment to realise he wasn't in there alone.

“Sandor?” she asked when he only stared at her. “Are you--”

“I made it.”

It was at that moment that, if anyone else had interrupted her, they’d be apologising profusely for their rudeness, but Sandor Clegane didn’t. He closed his eyes and dropped his head back onto the pillows. He looked as if he was saying a silent prayer of thanks to whichever gods were listening, but Sansa knew better. He must have been tired after his long journey.

“Bran sent a raven,” she said, when it was clear he didn’t intend to apologise or say anything else. “He said you’d survived the fire in King’s Landing, and--” _And his brother_. Sansa lowered her eyes. “I expected to never see you again.”

“Never expected to come back here myself.”

Sansa clasped her hands tight in front of her, watching him. She’d waited for him, after finding out he hadn’t died after all, but then a moon's turn had gone by and he hadn’t appeared at Winterfell. Before that, she’d let herself think about all of the things that could happen if he returned to her, but he hadn’t, and she’d had to start making other plans.

“But you did,” she said quietly.

“But I did.”

Hope gripped her heart, taking her breath away. “Why?”

“Why do you think?”

He cracked open an eye and looked at her. She could tell she wouldn’t get any more out of him than that, no matter how much she wanted to know the answer. She sighed and sat down on the bed. It was a bed meant for two people, but he lay in the middle and filled it so that, even sitting on the edge, there was little room for both of them .

Her thigh pressed against his hip, hidden snugly under the blankets she’d had piled onto him. It shouldn’t have sent a flip through her stomach, and when she looked at him his face had a little more colour than before.

Sansa pressed her lips together and looked to the wall, trying not to think of the last time they’d shared a bed together.

“Bran said you were badly hurt,” she said.

“I was. I healed.”

“It doesn’t look like it.” Glancing back at him, Sansa caught an amused smile on his face. It fell quickly when she looked at him, and it was his turn to look away.

“There are raiders on the roads,” she continued. “After all the wars, people have had little chance to tend their crops or store enough food. People are desperate.” She watched him, but he didn’t look at her again, and she sighed. “You could have been robbed.”

“I can take care of myself,” he grumbled. Had it been any other time, _before_ he’d left her, she’d have no doubt that he could handle himself against anything or anyone. But now he could barely sit up, and his raspy voice sounded like he was on the edge of falling into a nasty cough.

“The Queen in the North,” he said, and she hoped she wasn’t imagining the note of pride. He’d caught her staring, and although she wanted to look away, she couldn’t pull herself from the look on his face. “Thought you’d have a crown.”

Sansa smiled, answering the teasing twinkle in his eyes. It didn’t feel like a jape at her expense. He _was_ proud of her. It wasn’t lost on her that he hadn’t used any titles for her, and this was the first mention of her new rank, but the look on his face was all that mattered in that moment.

“I do,” she said with a little nod. He huffed a laugh and tried to lift himself higher in the bed.

“‘Course you do.” He gave up pushing himself higher when he realised it wasn’t going to work. He sat up a little, propped up by his pillows, but a grimace told her that he must have hurt his arm. She pulled the fur blanket higher up the bed, covering the tops of his arm, and he stared at her as if he couldn’t work out what she was doing.

It had been nearly four moon's since she’d last seen him, and three since he’d fought the Mountain. His wounds were undoubtedly new. Sansa brushed her hand over her stomach and pulled her cloak tighter around herself.

“What do you think Cersei would say, or that cunt Joffrey, if they could see you now?”

She looked at him, frowning softly. “Does it matter? They can’t say anything anymore.”

He made a sound that she supposed was a laugh, or an attempt at one, but it was weak and gruff and sounded more like a cough.

“You’re all wolf now,” he said.

Sansa smiled ruefully, looking down at her hands where they clasped her cloak.

“Are you cold?” he asked. She didn’t know what to say. She was used to the northern weather. The North was a part of her, and she couldn’t imagine ever feeling cold in Winterfell. _No_ , she wanted to say, she wasn’t cold. She just couldn’t remove her cloak.

“I’ll have someone to bring you something to eat. You need to regain your strength,” she said instead, rising from the bed. Sandor raised his hand, probably to stop her or grasp her wrist, but he was too slow and she didn’t give him a chance to touch her.

She reached the door before she heard the scrape of his voice again.

“Thank you,” he said, so quietly that he probably half-hoped she wouldn’t hear him. Sansa nodded, took one last look at him lying in their bed, and left.


	2. Sandor I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Maplesyrup (maplesyrupao3 on tumblr) for beta'ing this chapter, and thank you everyone for all the feedback and kudos on the last chapter!

He'd spent nearly a week in that damn bed. The little bird insisted he stay in there until she was sure he'd overcome his chill and, as he was quickly finding out, you didn't go against the new northern queen.

Winterfell’s maester paid him a visit almost as often as maids came with hot bowls of soup or stew. Sansa came with them to talk to him while he ate, to make sure he ate, but conversation was sparse. They had little to say to one another, not while they were avoiding the bloody obvious. And she _was_ avoiding it. He may have been older now, and slower, but he was still astute enough to know when his company wasn’t desired. Poor woman probably regretted what had happened that night; the night they were all happy they hadn’t joined the army of the dead.

He remembered what her brother had told him the night before he’d decided to ride to Winterfell, and wondered if he’d misunderstood the strange lad’s vision.

“Sandor?” the little bird asked. “What is it?”

Looking up from his soup he found Sansa watching him. She had a little frown and her hands clasped that ridiculous cloak she insisted on wearing. He hadn’t seen her in anything else over the last few days, and he frowned back at her.

“Nothing,” he said gruffly. “Just not hungry, that’s all.”

“You have to eat,” she worried, sitting down beside him. It was about as close as she’d get to him, and he was surprised she did that much. He was surprised she came to that room at all.

“I have been eating. I eat every fucking day.”

“Then eat _today_.”

“I’m tired of watery soup! It tastes like--”

Sansa raised an eyebrow at him and he stopped. Of course. He couldn’t insult her cook, or any of her people. Northerners were a loyal and stubborn lot, and he’d do well not to forget that. He lowered the bowl into his lap and looked away.

“They’re doing their best,” she said gently. “We have little food as it is until summer returns. All we can do is hunt.”

He smirked. “Thought wolves were supposed to be good at that.”

“Dogs can hunt, too.”

“Might be inclined to if you let me out of this kennel.”

She smiled and looked away, to the one window in the room. All that could be seen outside was white. Whether snow or the sky, he didn’t know, but it did nothing to brighten up the grey room. He took the opportunity, while she was distracted, to put his bowl on the little table beside the bed.

“We could all go hunting,” she said, drawing his attention back to her, “once Ser Brienne returns.”

He grunted, lying back. “Thought she was in your brother’s kingsguard now?”

“She wishes to return, now that everything is settled in the south. It will be good to see her again.”

Sandor said nothing. He gave only a curt nod and looked away, to any point in the room that was not near Sansa. Even so, he could feel her watching him. It unnerved him how easily she could look upon him without flinching; without disgust or fear.

“Is that why you came back?” she asked evenly, but he refused to look at her this time. “To protect me?”

Would she ever stop asking him why he’d returned to her? Visions from the king aside, wasn’t it obvious why he would want to be there? She needed an ally in the north.

“If that’s what you want of me,” he said. “Doesn’t seem you need me to now. Ser Brienne can protect you just fine.”

That didn’t appear to be the answer she wanted, but he never knew what the woman wanted. She’d wanted him, once, but now she wore that heavy cloak and hid her body from his gaze. His attentions were unwanted. He knew that much.

Bugger this. He wasn’t going to sit around in that bed any longer, with the little bird flitting around him, worrying but keeping her distance. He’d humoured her, until now. His injuries had mostly healed in the time following his fight with his brother. His broken arm had healed, and although the sight in his left eye wasn’t what it used to be, he could still see well enough to fight. It was only his strength that was waning, and that wouldn’t be helped by spending any more time in _that_ bed. Their bed.

He threw aside the fur cover and lifted himself up. Sansa jumped to her feet and hurried around the other side to meet him.

“Where are you going?” she asked, placing a hand on his arm. “You're to stay in bed and keep warm.”

He stared at her hand on him. It was too much. The room was cold, he was cold, but his arm burnt hot where she gripped him. Sansa was a tall woman, but she was small compared to him. The idea that she could stop him from stumbling or collapsing would have been laughable, but instead he was too focused on her touch. It brought back memories of that night and he shrugged her away. No good ever came of dwelling on things that could never be, or should never have been.

“Plenty of other ways to keep warm,” he said, and pushed himself to his feet. “Put a sword in my hand, a woman in my bed, or leave me be.” There. That should be enough to tell her he wouldn’t impose on her again. No need to wear that damn cloak.

Sansa didn’t speak immediately, and he refused to look at her. He looked down at his clothes instead. Stripped of his armour, Sandor wore only a tunic and breeches. He needed a new tunic.

“Very well,” Sansa said, all steel and cold. “I shall put a sword in your hand, and you can join Brienne on my queensguard. Would you like that?”

He looked to her, and she met his eyes with unflinching determination. Even with her back straight and chin raised she was shorter than him, but she carried herself in a way that left no doubt who held the real power.

What was he supposed to say to her? He wouldn’t refuse her. He’d never refuse her, but it was enough to remind him that she was a queen and her rank would always be higher than his. No matter what had happened between them. His stomach sank and he scowled, but even that wasn’t enough to make her look away from him.

Wasn’t that what he had wanted, to put distance between them to assure her she needn’t fear his advances?

“Aye,” he agreed. “Your grace.”

That seemed to displease the little bird even more. Her soft frown was back and she parted her pretty lips to say something further, but a light rapping at the door stopped her. She turned to it, casting him a look as if to warn him against something.

“Enter,” she called.

A nervous thing walked in, Sansa’s maid. She seemed pleasant enough, for a nervous northern girl, but she always hid her eyes behind a wall of brown hair and made herself as small as possible whenever she was around him. Sansa seemed to notice, and readily had a reassuring smile for the timid woman.

“Lyra,” she greeted.

"Your grace," Lyra said, bobbing a curtsy, but she didn't once look to him or address him. She probably didn’t know how to. "Maester Wolkan wants to... Well he--" She did look at him then, briefly and fearfully, before quickly darting her doe eyes back to Sansa. "He says he wants to check something, your grace."

Sansa smiled, just slightly, but it was damn forced compared to the reassuring smile of a moment ago.

"Of course," she said with a stiff nod, and turned to put her hand back on his arm. His harsh words seemed to have been forgiven, if the look she sent him was anything to go by. She had softened, not because of his acceptance of his new position, but something else. It was something that felt a little too much like pity, or concern, for his liking.

“I shall be back later,” she said with that same softness. “With more soup.”

She lowered her head, thinking of something. He kept willing her to look at him, to forget about her maid and the seven-damned maester, and stay with him a little while longer. He was a fool, he knew that, for wanting the attention of a woman who had already given him more than he deserved. But now she was a queen, a queen who genuinely cared, and he deserved her even less.

Coming to a decision, Sansa nodded to herself and lifted her eyes, but she only looked at him long enough to say, "I don't regret it." Then she left, followed quickly by her skittish maid.

Sandor watched, words and breath taken from him, as the door closed behind her. Footsteps tapped down the hall away from their room and he sat down heavily on the bed.

How could she not regret it? How could she look him in the eye, in front of that Lyra girl, and tell him she didn’t regret inviting him to bed? If she truly did not regret it, then he may not have misunderstood her brother’s vision after all.

He remembered well the words of the king, when he came to Sandor’s sick bed to tell him what he had seen.

_A child with my eyes and the Stark name._


	3. Sansa II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Maplesyrup for beta'ing ❤️

Brienne had been back for no more than a day when Sansa found them training. Before that, Sandor and she had spoken little. If he wasn't resting, as she kept insisting he do, he was following her around in his official position as her guard.

After talking to Lyra about having a new dress made, Sansa had headed to Sandor’s chamber, only to find it empty. The bowl of stew, taken to him not long ago, had been half-eaten and left to turn cold. She pulled the blankets and furs straight on the bed, so it would be a little warmer for him when he returned, and went in search of him.

It didn’t take long once she heard the clanging of swords outside, and a smile curved Sansa’s lips as she followed the sound.

There had been no chance to use that great sword he’d spent the last few days carrying around. It was the first time Sansa had seen him wielding a weapon in a long time, and she stopped for a moment, simply watching. He was a little clumsier than he used to be, but his sheer size made up for what otherwise may have been a weaker swing of the blade. Brienne countered him easily, however, and as Sansa walked closer to the training yard, their raised voices reached her.

“I’m giving you a fair--”

“Fuck fair,” he interrupted gruffly. “No man ever won a fight from being fair. Hit me harder.”

“Ser Brienne,” Sansa spoke from across the yard, before either of them had a chance to raise their swords. She crossed the distance between them, and all sparring halted. Squires and horsemen turned to bow, and Sansa gave them all a smile before she looked to Sandor. “Clegane.”

“Your grace,” Brienne said readily, echoed by Sandor. It was the only thing he called her now. Since his return to Winterfell he hadn’t called her little bird, or used her name. He’d called her nothing at all until she named him a member of her queensguard, and now everything was so formal between them. She misliked it.

Sansa had hoped, when she suggested both he and Brienne protect her, that it would be a way of keeping him close. She would rebuild their relationship, whatever it may be, and tell him her secret. A secret which, so far, only maester Wolkan, Lyra, and Brienne knew. She’d told him she felt no regret for the night they spent together, but he hadn’t returned the sentiment. He never mentioned or hinted at that night, and Sansa could only assume that it held only bitter memories for him.

She didn’t want to dwell on how that made her feel. It wasn’t a nice feeling, but she couldn’t put it off any longer. Aching heart aside, she had to tell him the truth.

“I thought I might take a walk to the godswood,” Sansa made herself say, even and pleasant enough. No one but Brienne and Sandor would see through it. “Will you accompany me, Clegane?”

It took great effort to keep her words from trembling and her eyes from straying elsewhere. She wouldn't look from him. She wouldn't give him any reason to think she no longer enjoyed the sight of him. It was him that had to look away. He glanced at those around them, sheathing his sword, and looked to Brienne. From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Brienne nod, before Sandor nodded too.

“Aye,” he said curtly, straightening his back. “Your grace.”

Sansa turned quickly, determined not to let him see how much it irked her that he called her that now. They were surrounded by other people. It would have been inappropriate for him to call her anything else, but even when they were alone he called her _your grace_.

She walked on, through the path the men had made for her, and heard the heavy clunk of his armoured footfalls behind her. He wasn’t close behind her. He would never walk as close to her as Brienne did. Sandor always kept a distance now, as if he could not stand to be near her after what they had done. He most likely had some misplaced sense of propriety now that her position had changed, and Sansa had no idea how to push past that.

They walked in silence and left the courtyard behind. The hiss of steel started again as training resumed, and her shoulders relaxed. She glanced over at Sandor but his eyes were firmly fixed ahead. She frowned and looked down at her hands clasped in front of her.

“How did it feel to hold a sword again?” she asked, trying to break his self-imposed silence.

“Good enough,” he said, and left her with nothing else to work with.

Sansa deliberately slowed her steps, hoping it would make him walk a little closer, but she heard his own footsteps slow as they crunched through the show. They were just reaching the mouth of the godswood when she tried to speak again.

“You were fighting well,” she said. “No one can last so long again Brienne.”

Sandor snorted but she refused to look at him again. She kept walking, through the freshly fallen snow and the iron gate, into the godswood. They walked under the trees of ash and oak and ironwood, towards the weirwood and pool. It was quieter there, free of the people at work and any whispers about the queen's condition. Her footsteps quickened, carrying her deeper into the wood, and so did his.

“I thought you were past singing your pretty words to me, little bird.”

She stopped, so suddenly that she almost slipped and he almost bumped into her, and turned to look up at him. His face was steely, free of any emotion and any hint that there was a connection between them, but his eyes… There was something in the way those eyes focused on her that let her know there was still something between them. She gripped her cloak tighter.

“I thought you would never call me that again,” she said.

"I will when you chirp your niceties at me," he grumbled. "Polite words won't hide the fact that I can't bloody fight like I used to."

Sansa pressed her lips into a line and shook her head. “You could take any one of the men in the yard, and still have energy enough to fight five more.”

Sandor laughed a barking laugh, as if she had told some great jape. The look in his eyes was gone, now that he wasn’t looking at her.

“Pretty words,” he repeated.

“I have no reason to lie to you.” She put her hand on his arm, bringing his attention back to her. “You _are_ a good fighter, even now. I wouldn’t have asked you to protect me otherwise. And that is why you came back, is it not?”

His jaw set, but she didn’t think it was out of anger. It seemed more like he was trying to dissuade himself from saying something. He looked around them, to the light dusting of snow falling through the canopy of the wood and the black pool up ahead. His lips twisted in thought, and Sansa tried not to think about how those warm lips had felt on her. Hopefully the cold would be excuse enough for her cheeks tinting red.

“Are we going to stand here all morning, or do you plan on praying to your gods before we fucking freeze to death?”

Smiling at him, Sansa turned around and continued their walk to the weirwood. He followed close behind this time. She rubbed her hands over the slight curve of her stomach and took a deep breath.

“I don’t intend to pray,” she told him. “I wanted to speak with you. Alone.”

“We’ve been alone plenty since I arrived.”

She nodded sadly. _Yes,_ she thought, _we have been_. But she hadn’t been able to bring herself to say the words then.

“This is… You needed rest,” she stumbled. “I had to find the right moment.”

“Must be damn important if you were afraid to tell me, your grace.”

Sansa stopped and turned to him, pressing her hand to his chest. He was so warm. The heat from his broad chest reached her even through his tunic and furs. She took her hand away.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Would you rather still be little bird?”

“No. I have a name of my own.”

“You’re the queen,” he reminded firmly. “I don’t get the honour of using your name.”

“It’s not-- You may use my name. We’re alone here.”

He looked at her ruefully, his mouth pressed into a line, as if he saw something she could not. “And in front of others?”

"I..." Sansa shook her head and started to walk again. She wanted to be sure they were alone -- truly alone where no one would hear her news -- before she told him. "That can be changed."

He followed her, and she could feel how reluctant he was. His steps were slow, hesitant, and put a greater gap between them as they walked.

"How?" he asked, frowning. “You think none of your men will talk if they hear me use your name?”

“Let them.” It wouldn’t matter if they talked. Soon, whatever rumours there were about herself and Sandor Clegane would be proven right. “They’ll have plenty to talk about when--"

She slipped. A root caught the toe of her boot and brought her down into the snow, onto her hands and knees. Her gloves and thick dress pillowed the impact, as well as the fresh snow, but that didn’t stop the heat of embarrassment colouring her cheeks.

“Sansa?” Sandor’s hand grasped her arm with such gentle care that she couldn’t help but smile, and he lifted her to her feet. Sansa kept her cloak wrapped around herself, letting him rub her arms and dust the snow from it, and the red in her cheeks deepened with something other than cold or embarrassment. That would teach her to watch where she was going rather than seeking Sandor out.

“Are you hurt?” he worried and cupped the side of her head. His hand on her steadied her, and Sansa lifted her chin to look at him. He was being so careful with her, and nothing like the gruff guard who’d laughed at her attempts to assure him only moments before.

“I’m fine,” she promised, nodding quickly and took his other hand into hers. She squeezed it and tried to smile, and he smiled back. If she didn’t hold him, she feared he’d continue to worry and touch her and _feel_ her secret. She wanted to tell him before that happened.

“I’m fine,” she repeated, and took a deep breath to brace herself. “But I have to-- _ah_.” A twinge of pain shot through her stomach and she froze.

“Sansa?”

It was likely nothing. She’d heard many stories about odd pains and discomfort during this time. A muscle pain may have been nothing to fear, but she did fear. She couldn’t help it. Sansa hugged herself, releasing his hand and keeping the cloak tight around her, and Sandor frowned. He reached for her again but again she shook her head. She had to go. There was little point in revealing her news if something bad were to happen.

“Excuse me,” she said, sidestepping him and holding her stomach. “I have to speak with maester Wolkan.”

“You’re hurt.” His voice was even, his usual deep rasp returned, but his eyes gave him away once more. He was worried; deeply worried. She wished she could comfort him. She wished she’d told him the truth sooner, but she’d missed her moment. Telling him now would only worry him further.

“I’ll take you to the maester,” Sandor added.

Shaking her head before he even finished speaking, Sansa forgot all sense of propriety as she moved back to the iron gate, hoping he wouldn’t follow her.

“No, no. There’s no need,” she called over her shoulder. “You’re welcome to return to the training yard.”

Snow crushed underfoot as she hurried out of the godswood, but it wasn’t enough to mask his flat, “your grace,” behind her.


End file.
